The Belle and the Beard by Kate Canterbary (carter reed TXT) 📗

I lifted a shoulder as I chased a tomato through a drop of balsamic. "Nope. Just toast for me. But I should mention that toast isn't just for breakfast. I'm happy eating it all day."

"What about French toast?"

"Not my style. I'm not into sweets as much."

"Then"—he cocked his head to the side, his brows lowered—"does that mean you don't eat banana bread?"

"We're back on the banana bread bullshit?"

"I just want to know if you know what banana bread is supposed to taste like," he said. "Or pecan pie, for that matter."

This would've been a great moment to get up and busy myself with fixing a cup of coffee, but seeing as that wasn't an option I held up my hands and let them fall. "I've tried both, if that's what you're asking. I don't eat them often."

Linden leaned back, nodding slowly. "That explains it."

"If that's what you want to think, I won't stop you."

"What is it about toast?"

I shot him a bratty eyebrow. "I have to justify toast to you? Does that seem right?"

"If you ate toast like a regular person, no, I wouldn't say a thing about it. But you wake up in the morning and say, 'Mmmm, I can't wait to make toast.'"

He made me sound like a cartoon character and that chafed but not enough to stop me from laughing. "I've always loved toast. Even before I realized I could make it fancy, I loved it. There's just something that makes me so happy about a slice of warm, perfectly browned bread."

He gave me another slow nod, like he couldn't comprehend this, like he couldn't comprehend me. A chill chased through my shoulders and I had the urge to drop into a small, quiet place or lash out at him for criticizing this one innocent thing of mine—or both, yes, both, I'd lash out and then I'd leave and—

"I don't know how you do it. It wouldn't occur to me to make all these different things with toast."

It took me a second to gulp down the old fight-then-flight reflex that surfaced more often than I wanted. "It's fun," I said. "And it's inexpensive because you can stretch the ingredients. It's also better than cooking a whole big meal. Especially when it's just me."

"It's not just you."

I glanced at Linden before snatching his plate for washing. He liked to pepper comments like that one into conversation as if they were totally ordinary. As if my life wasn't a million pieces spread out before me and the instruction manual nowhere to be found. As if it wasn't just me and I wasn't making my way all by myself, not anymore.

"Then it's an extra slice of bread or two. No trouble." I pushed away from the table and filed the plates in the dishwasher. "It's not like replacing a porch with the same tools as the pilgrims used."

"Look at you, talking about pilgrims. If you stay here much longer, we won't even be able to find the South in you anymore." He came up behind me, brought his hands to my hips. "I bet I'll find it if I look real hard."

I dropped my chin to my chest and closed my eyes as Linden pushed my hair over one shoulder and dragged his lips along the nape of my neck. "Haven't lost it after all these years away from Georgia. Won't lose it now," I said as defiantly as anyone could in this position. "Even if I do find myself in Plymouth Rock country."

"I could say something about giving you all the Plymouth Rock you want"—he pressed into me, his shaft hard against my backside—"but I don't think you'd appreciate that comment as much as I'd enjoy making it."

A soft laugh shook my shoulders. "Lin, you did say it."

He kissed the nape of my neck then smoothed my hair back into place. He was careful though a bit clumsy about it, obviously unaccustomed to handling long hair. A ripple of tingles moved down my body and I was relieved he couldn't see my face because I knew my smile was delirious.

"Why don't you show me what you've done next door? I want to see everything you've accomplished."

"Is that the prerequisite for lending me a nail gun?"

"Baby, I don't have a nail gun. I have nine kinds of chainsaws and zero nail guns. I just want to see what you've been doing there the past six weeks."

Though my hair was back to rights, Linden continued running his fingers through the strands, tugging only enough to light up my scalp with the kind of warmth and softness that made me feel loose everywhere. "Then you're not trying to keep me away from power tools?"

"I am definitely trying to keep you away from power tools. I'm also interested to see how the house is coming along."

"We could stay right here instead," I murmured.

He sighed into my neck. "I love your hair."

I blew out a breath, my eyes still closed and his shaft still heavy against my ass while those words soaked into me like the sun's rays in winter—strained, filtered, and inarguably true.

"It's always so soft," he continued. "I don't understand how anything could be this soft."

I nearly explained my shea butter conditioning mask but stopped myself in time.

"And you always smell so…lovely," he added.

Again, the shea butter mask. "Thank you."

He banded his arms around my torso and gave me a great squeeze, his face pressed to my neck. As he held me, a rumbly growl sounded from his throat, a noise that wasn't nearly as predatory as it was possessive. Like he was deeply satisfied.

I stepped out of his hold and away from the dishwasher. "What do you want to see first?"

It hadn't occurred to me that Linden would be critical of my work on Midge's house though when I led him through the front door, a blast of preemptive defensiveness flooded me.

"Obviously, I'm not an expert